


A Bit of a Dance

by michaelandthegodsquad



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Embarrassment, Fluff, M/M, Meet-Cute, Public Transportation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 08:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6511372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander blames the hot car.</p>
<p>He blames the hot car, and the blue line, and the loose cap on his coffee cup—</p>
<p>—and yeah, maybe he blames the guy, a little, for being so distracting in the first place.</p>
<p>OR: Alexander gets distracted by the attractive man standing next to him on the train...then promptly spills coffee on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of a Dance

**Author's Note:**

> ....I started reading fic for this ship less than a week ago, so I'm not sure how this happened. This is my life now, I guess.
> 
> Inspired by [this OTP prompt](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/142351333408/imagine-your-otp-meet-on-some-form-of-public). As usual things got away from me. 
> 
> First time writing for this fandom, with only a quick self-beta; I would really appreciate feedback!
> 
> Special thanks to Alyse for putting up with me complaining about this, helping me work through it, and looking it over. I'm sorry that "Does AH seem like the type to say 'Suck my ass' to you? He does to me," was an actual text that I sent you. ~~I blame you for dragging me into this hell in the first place.~~

Alexander blames the hot car.

He blames the hot car, and the blue line, and the loose cap on his coffee cup—

—and yeah, maybe he blames the guy, a little, for being so distracting in the first place.

He’s on the platform reading a book and sipping a frappuccino through a straw (and yes, he knows it’s not real coffee, but it’s damn near 90 degrees out and anyone who wants to judge him can suck his ass), which is why he’s not really paying attention when the train pulls in. Had Alex been paying attention, he would’ve noticed the way everyone in the car directly in front of him had a suspiciously sweaty sheen, the way most suit-wearers had stripped off their jackets and rolled up their sleeves, the way those with longer hair had all pinned it into messy buns and begun fanning themselves with the  _ Express.  _

But Alex is not paying attention, and he doesn’t notice. He barely even looks up as he begins to step off the platform and onto the train, but it takes him barely half a step in to feel the stark difference between the cool, crisp air of the station and the dense humidity of the car he’s stepping into. He pauses, looks up at everyone in the car with widening eyes, then backs up half a step, back onto the platform, glances at the cars in front and behind this one, and sees them both packed to capacity and then some. He weighs the options—whether he can squeeze into another car, how long it’ll take him to do so, how much longer it’ll take him to get to work if he ends up having to wait for the next train. It doesn’t add up, and he groans internally as he steps back into the hot car, the door closing swiftly behind him. 

Alex quickly tucks his book into his messenger bag and takes hold of a pole as the train jerks into motion, and he takes a deep breath and cringes at the warm air that fills his lungs. He could count on one hand the number of times this kind of shit happened back in New York. Particularly pungent passengers, he could handle. Mariachi bands, he could tolerate. But this—are the fans just blowing  _ more  _ hot air into the car?—this is just unbearable. 

He sweats it out, cursing internally the entire time and taking angry sips of his frap, until they pull into Foggy Bottom, and he laughs a little (so he’s still new here and it’s still funny, sue him) before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, taking advantage of the stilled train. At least he opted for just the vest and tie today instead of the jacket, he thinks, but he’s still bitter, and hopes that the pit stains that he’ll inevitably have by the time he gets to work won’t be too noticeable. He glares down at the carpeted flooring, sure that it’s somehow adding to his misery. Who carpets a fucking subway? He tries not to think about how nasty it must be, and focuses instead on his drink.

More people file onto the train and he moves further in, frowning because somehow the air feels even thicker in this part of the car. He swears some more under his breath, and that’s when he glances to his right and sees him.

He’s one of the few men in the car who hasn’t taken his jacket off, and it’s clearly taking his toll; his shaved head shines with sweat, which Alex watches roll down his forehead, catching on full eyebrows, furrowed in concentration as he reads a newspaper. More sweat rolls down the back of his neck, leading down to broad shoulders covered by an impeccably tailored navy suit; it hugs an equally broad chest and tapers down to a trim waist, carries his gaze down to what look like strong thighs and calves in semi-fitted pants. Alex swallows, sucking down more of his frap, and averts his eyes from the guy’s pants quickly, because that could get awkward quickly, couldn’t it?

Unfortunately, his eyes end up settling on the man’s hands, big where they hold his newspaper up, strong where they grip the horizontal pole near the top of the car. Alex glances at his own hold on the vertical pole, knowing from experience that he can only hold on to that top pole if he balances uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. So the man is big, so what? Alex is definitely not sweating about it, it’s just—it’s the hot car, okay? It’s just hotter in here now that more people have boarded and everyone is crowded closer together. Definitely nothing to do with the fact that this guy looks like he could throw Alex over his shoulder without even breaking a sweat. Definitely not.

They roll to a stop in Farragut West, and the guy glances up through the window briefly to check what station they’re at, has to angle his head down just to be able to see (and  _ fuck,  _ he’s tall, Alex notes again), then rolls his shoulders back and refocuses on his newspaper.  Alex doesn’t  _ want  _ to stare (and he knows that’s a lie the moment he thinks it), but standing with his coffee means no reading, so he needs something to occupy his time, right? At the very least it’s distracting him from the oppressive heat in the car, he tells himself as justification. 

The stiff leather satchel hanging from the man’s shoulder is the same dark brown as his shoes, which Alex takes a moment to appreciate. He can’t afford to dress the way he’d like to (yet, he tells himself, can’t afford it  _ yet _ ) but he always admires those more fashionable than himself, swears that soon it’ll be much the same for him. He probably won’t fill out the suit as well as this guy does, but...Alex’s thought trails off as he swallows.

A quick flash from the hand holding the newspaper draws Alex’s eyes to what looks like a class ring, and he tries not to stare at the guy’s fingers for too long, or think about them for that matter. It’s a big ring, and his first thought is of how much damage it could do if the guy punched somebody, and he shakes his head; that kind of thinking may just be the New York in him, a product of his upbringing. He can’t make out the words or the year but he recognizes that eagle, its widespread wings: it’s a Georgetown ring, and for half a second Alex lets himself raise an eyebrow, impressed, but then looks away again and schools his expression into something less interested, less creepy. They stop at Mcpherson Square and, impossibly, more people crowd on. He has to move even further into the car, and finds himself less than two feet away from the guy, tries very hard to avert his eyes and not be so obvious now that they’re this close together.

A rustle of the newspaper has him looking over again anyway, and now that they’re standing so close he can actually smell the guy’s cologne; it’s something earthy like cedarwood but with a hint of spice—maybe cinnamon? (Something in the back of Alex’s mind oh so helpfully provides that real cinnamon actually smells sweet or floral whereas the spicy scent he’s thinking of is actually cassia, and he frowns, thinking that maybe he needs to stop reading in the same room where his roommate obsessively watches the Food Network.) In any case, the guy smells nice— _ really  _ nice, if Alex is being honest with himself, and why wouldn’t he, right? It’s not like Alex isn’t  _ already _ preoccupied enough with the guy after observing him for just a few minutes on the metro, Jesus fucking Christ, Alex, quit being so thirsty, he tells himself, and makes yet another feeble attempt to look away and distract himself.

....And of course it doesn’t work. Whatever, not his fault no one else in the car is quite as interesting. This guy’s got attorney, or maybe government official, written all over him. Alex knows the type by now, and for a moment he wonders why the guy’s suffering through the metro instead of driving. Then Alex remembers his first and only experience driving in DC, back at the beginning of the summer when he decided to rent a car and drive down for his final interview before his internship began, and suddenly the idea that this guy would rather brave the metro doesn’t seem all that—

Alex never quite gets to finish that thought because the next thing he knows, they’re jerking to an abrupt stop at Metro Center, and everything goes to shit in the blink of an eye. In his distraction, his sweaty palm had lost its sure grip on the pole, and everything that follows seems to happen in horrifyingly slow motion: the train stops, his hand slips. Suddenly he’s tumbling right into the guy, the cap on his frappuccino popping off at the sudden movement and spilling icy coffee down the front of his impeccably fitted jacket.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Alex registers a few people in the car gasping, a chorus of “Oooh” from some, but he can’t be bothered with that. Instead he zeroes in on the guy’s face, the flash of shock accompanied by an oddly quiet “What the—” followed by realization and irritation. It’s with furrowed brows and a deep frown that he finally turns his eyes on Alexander—and in that moment he does feel like Alexander, small and vulnerable, not like the cocky, loud-mouthed Alex he’s grown up to be.

He rights himself, bends to pick up his now emptied cup, then looks up and focuses on the spot between the man’s eyes to feign eye contact, oddly chagrinned by the feeling that he may have disappointed this man. He tries not to think about that too much as he swallows, says, “I am  _ so  _ sorry.” A beat, and then, “Sir.”

A strange look passes over the man’s face, and he rumbles out a stern “Young man,” makes Alex’s eyes widen at the low timber of his voice, but then the train doors open on Metro Center and he looks away. “I don’t have time for this,” he murmurs as he turns to navigate through the crowded train car and out the door, and without even registering what he’s doing, Alex follows him.

“Wait, sir, I—” he pauses only to sigh in relief at the cool air hitting his face. “I really am sorry,” he says, walking quickly to keep up with the man’s long, steady stride. “I have some napkins, hold on.” But he doesn’t hold on, keeps walking at a brisk pace, down the platform, up the stairs, through the bustling station, all with Alex trailing him as he digs into his bag for the napkins he’d grabbed at the coffee shop. He finds some with a triumphant sound, then takes a couple of hurried steps to catch up until he’s at the man’s side and offering them to him.

The guy glances at him for a moment, then takes the napkins with a quiet huff, wiping down the front of his jacket as they arrive at the red line platform just in time to watch it pull away. His shoulders slump and he mutters, “Wonderful. Just wonderful,” as he continues to wipe his jacket clean before forcefully tossing the napkins into a nearby trash can. He sighs and drags a hand down his face, and Alex deflates. The platform is nearly empty now; Alex glances up at the board that says the next Glenmont bound red line doesn’t arrive for another twelve minutes and he frowns. 

“I am incredibly sorry, sir,” he says, the the guy lets out a quick, sardonic laugh. 

“I have to be in court in half an hour,” he says, looking at the board. At least he was right about the attorney thing, Alex thinks to himself. 

He glances down, seeing a drop of his frap still clinging to the man’s lapel. “You’ve still got—” Alex says, then trails off at the impatient side-eye the man shoots him. “Here, let me.” He manages to dig one more napkin out of his bag and steps forward, hesitates for a moment, waits for an objection, but all he gets is that same strange look. As he reaches out to dab at the man’s jacketl, alarm bells go off in his mind, that instinct that warns him against getting this close to someone, lest he end up with a bloody nose, but he pushes that down.

The guy clears his throat and Alex pauses, glances up at him. “You know you’re not supposed to have food or drinks down here.”

Alex lets out a dry chuckle, continues dabbing at damp spots on the man’s jacket, rooted to the spot for reasons he doesn’t want to think about. “Yeah, I uh...keep forgetting that. The MTA’s not as strict about food and stuff. Maybe they should be, if the number of times I’ve stepped in a pile of sunflower seed shells is any indicator but...I guess I’m not one to talk since I’ve probably had more meals on trains than is strictly reasonable, and—am I rambling? I’m rambling. Sorry. I do that a lot. Uh...I should…”

“You’re from New York?”

Alex looks up quickly at him, surprised by the conversational tone, and nods, looking back down at what he’s doing. “From Inwood, yeah.” The jacket has been pretty much dried by now, but Alex is still here, and why  _ is  _ he still here? Why can’t he bring himself to just go, get back on his train, make it the rest of the way to work, and leave this man alone already? His hands are still on his lapel, just sort of touching at this point, and when Alex looks up at his face again he thinks maybe he doesn’t  _ want  _ Alex to leave him alone.

But, Alex thinks, he’s probably just projecting, so he forces himself to let go, take a step back. “There. All good.” The scent of coffee still lingers on him, though, and Alex frowns. “I’m sorry again.”

The guy’s face is still impassive, but he shrugs. “It’s nothing dry cleaning can’t fix, I imagine.” He looks down at himself, brushing absently at his clothes, then quietly murmurs, “The robe should cover it anyway.”

Something heavy drops in the pit of Alex’s stomach at that. “You’re a judge.” The man nods, and Alex lets out another dry laugh, folding his arms over his chest, because  _ of course,  _ Alex would make a fool of himself in front of someone important, someone his bosses probably know. Of course. “Great. I’m a fucking idiot.” The man raises an eyebrow when he swears, and Alex winces. “Sorry, sir—uh—your honor.”

The guy frowns and Alex looks down at his shoes. “Call me George,” he catches the guy saying, barely, like he meant it for Alex’s ears only. There’s yet another strange look on his face, his mouth a tight, straight line, as he now seems to be the one averting his eyes. Alex shouldn’t find it endearing, but. Well.

“George?” he asks, trying not to appear too excited. At George’s nod, he grins to himself, uncrossing his arms and stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Alexander,” he offers quietly. “Or Alex.” George hums, considering him for a moment, then clears his throat. 

“So Alexander,” he says, mirroring Alex’s posture and slipping his hands into his pockets. “What brings you here from New York, then?”

Alex brightens up at that, pushes down the warm feeling that comes with George seeming to take an interest in him. “Oh, I’m just here for the summer, really, for my legal internship. I mean, chances are I’ll end up back here after Columbia,” (and he takes some satisfaction in the way George quirks his brow at the name drop), “which sucks a little because I’ll miss New York and the humidity down here is hell on my hair and…” He trails off when he sees George biting back a laugh, and shrugs. “And I’m rambling again so I’m just gonna…” He glances at the board again, seeing that there are only two minutes before George’s train arrives, and tries not to let his face fall. 

“Hey, uh. I’m sorry again about all this. Uh,” Alex says, and he doesn’t think he’s ever said ‘uh’ this much in his  _ life.  _ “Let me give you my number and I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, at least?” And there’s a moment where he considers  _ not  _ saying what he’s about to say, but: “Or perhaps dinner?”

Later, if anyone asks, Alex will say he’s not sure what compelled him to say it, but that’ll be a lie. In truth, he thinks about Laurens—well, maybe not about the man himself, but about a story he’d told Alex, one night in undergrad, after a few drinks, celebrating the end of midterms maybe, Alex can’t quite remember, but. He remembers that story. Remembers John’s father, racing down to a subway platform back home to catch the 4 train before it left, slipping in between closing doors at the last possible second, only to meet the woman who would become John’s mother. In that split second he remembers Laurens, well on his way to being drunk, marveling at the idea that he may have never existed had his father not made it onto that train. The train part is just a coincidence, he’ll tell himself, and Alex doesn’t believe in fate—has been through too much to believe that something could be orchestrating it all—but maybe. Maybe. 

The corner of George’s mouth is beginning to curl into what might be a smile when he responds. “Son, are you trying to ask me out after spilling coffee all over me?”

Alex gives him pinched smile, almost unsure of himself, and he grips the strap of his messenger bag. “Yes?” he says, and then, with what he hopes is a charming grin, “Is it working?”

There’s a moment where George just stares at him, and Alex finds himself straightening up, hoping that he passes inspection, so to speak. George doesn’t answer with words, just pulls his phone out of his pocket, swiping his thumb across the screen a few times before handing it to Alex. It’s open to the keypad, and Alex tries not to fist pump but he bites his lip to stifle his grin as he enters his number and saves it as Alexander Hamilton. George looks at it for a second, nods, and pockets his phone again. His train finally arrives in a flurry of noise, but in the quiet moment between when it stops and when the doors open, he turns to Alex and says, “Have a good day, Alexander,” with a knowing look before he gets on.

Alex stands there until the train leaves, grinning the entire time. When he glances at his watch, he has ten minutes to get to work, so he makes for the stairs and decides to walk the rest of the way instead of waiting for another train. 

He’s late, of course, but he can’t quite bring himself to care.

-

It’s a couple of days of constantly checking his phone before Alex hears from him, that Friday in the middle of a meeting. Burr is going on about something or other when Alex’s phone vibrates in his pocket.

He saves the number as soon as he realizes who it is, grinning down at his phone as he replies to the message. He continues texting under the table, probably not being as subtle as he can be, until he has dinner plans for the following night. Alex smiles to himself, and Burr clears his throat.

“Is something amusing, Alexander?” he asks impatiently, and Alex can’t quite keep the smile from his face as he replies.

“No, not at all.”

-

Alex tells George the story about Laurens’s parents over dinner. Not that first dinner, of course, or even the second or the third—in truth he’s lost count by the time he finally does mention it, curled up barefoot on George’s couch with takeout boxes on the coffee table. 

“Is that so?” George says with a quirk of his brow, and part of Alex feels silly for telling him; he nods, looking suddenly very invested in his pad thai. 

George chuckles quietly, resting a hand on Alex’s knee, thumb stroking over the worn fabric of his jeans. Alex looks up to see a soft look on his face, and he smiles, digging his toes under George’s thigh for warmth. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come harass me on [Tumblr](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
